Oh where to begin. To call #thatman a “man” is an illusion, at best, as he has been possibly the most deranged person I’ve met yet.

After an ordinary interaction via dating website and text messages, I met #thatman at the mall for a date. It was still happy hour time on a Friday night, so we went to the Cheesecake Factory to pretend to share an Oreo cheesecake. Conversation went rather smoothly, but against my better judgement, I failed to pick up on the red flags waving in my face. The first of these came as a total surprise, when he shared that he had pooped in a sink. I will repeat that in case it wasn’t clear. He defecated in a sink. He wasn’t drunk, on drugs, or on any other mind altering substance. It wasn’t a dare. There wasn’t someone using the toilet AND shower. It was really just done with full malicious intent. Apparently, he wasn’t pleased with his apartment building, so when he was informed he wouldn’t be receiving his security deposit since he was breaking a lease, he decided to exact his revenge. He took a knife to the carpets and curtains, and proceeded to poop in the bathroom sink. I actually don’t know if it was the bathroom sink he pooped in, but I will assume he has a line and that line was drawn at “pooping in a kitchen sink.”

I will assume that whoever is reading this will put all (or most) judgement aside, since I am in fact providing wildly entertaining recounts of dates with men who no one else should ever go out with. That being said, I will confess to traveling to #thatman’s apartment (obviously not the one with the turd in the sink) shortly after our first meeting. Conversation got somewhat personal and sexual in nature, and he proceeded to share his wildest sexual fantasies. It’s not my style to share so so much, but I was just a listener in this case, so I took no issue. Amidst several odd wishes, he asked if I would ever want to pee on his face. Pee. PEE. On his face. PEE. ON. HIS. FACE. Let that sink in. (See what I did there?)

I’m an engineer. I question. I plan. I prepare. My initial shock was immediately overtaken by a sense of bewilderment. How would this even happen? Obviously it’s a sexual fantasy, so mid-intercourse? Maybe foreplay? Do people do this? Has he done it before? How? HOW does this happen? Is it in the shower for easy cleaning? Is there a peepee pad involved? Newspapers? Is lifting my leg like a dog part of the fantasy? Who cleans up? How can I ensure that my urine will actually make it to his face? I was ever so confused by this vision. I coyly shrugged my shoulders and let him believe that I might just be that dream girl he was looking for who would enjoy this semi public display of urination for sexual enjoyment.

After several weeks of entertaining the idea of #thatman, I think he realized that I wouldn’t actually pee on his face. Aside from his delusion that it was ok to be so forthcoming upon initial encounters, this man was truly, truly sick. I never knew with him what would set him off – he was like a Jack in the Box where every single little “ding!” scared the bejesus out of you, because that just might be the one where crazy comes out to play! Elaborate and inconsistent lies, mixed messages, and the archangels. Oh boy, the archangels!

I’m all for embracing religious beliefs, but this weirdo took it to the next level when he told me I couldn’t partake in his “archangel ritual” because I’m a “nonbeliever.” Except we were both of the same religion. Apparently he had some superior and exclusive knowledge of the Roman Catholic faith of which he was convinced I was to take no part in. You know what? I didn’t want to light candles and blow smoke in the faces of your strategically placed angel statues anyway! So there! (For the record, I’m not poking fun at any religion or religious belief. He was rude about it, and that’s what I had a problem with.)

His frustrations with me grew and grew, and eventually he dumped me on account of my “bad attitude.” He might have interpreted my questioning him after he showed me an entire drawer stocked with contraband medications as “bad attitude.” Or maybe it was when I said I didn’t appreciate his prolific use of the word p*ssy. Either way, it seems I was interfering with his free spirit, and he wanted to be set free from my reigns.

Deep down I know it was because I just wasn’t his “Princess and the Pee.”